


Twelve Days of Egomas

by a_nonny_moose



Series: My AU [79]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-15 11:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13029978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: 'Tis Christmas at the office, and Wilford wants to celebrate.





	1. The First Day of Christmas

_On the first day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, a_ _demonic eldritch entity._

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Chriiiiii—”

“Wilford, shut _up_.”

“There’s no need to be such a party pooper, Darky.” Wilford pouted at him, before turning back to the garishly pink garland he was draping down the hallway. 

Dark stopped to lean against the wall, watching in faint amusement. “I could hear you from the kitchen,” he muttered, eyes glinting. 

“Good!” Wilford stepped back to admire his work, mustache twitching. “You have to get into the Christmas spirit!”

Dark rolled his eyes. “As if.”

“This is the first time we get to decorate!” Wilford picked up a string of lights, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You could at least _act_ excited.”

Dark offered no response but a scoff, pushing himself off of the wall. 

“Suit yourself, Suits,” Wilford called after Dark as he receded down the hall to his office. “The rest of us are going to be _festive_!”

* * *

“As you know,” Dark started the meeting by standing, aura buzzing against his back, “Christmas is soon. While this would normally be of little importance—” he shot a glare at Wilford, Santa hat balanced on top of his head, butterfly knife replaced by a candy cane, “—Mark has been known to ‘allow’ us videos on holidays. What this means is that—”

“Okay, yeah, great, whatever,” Wilford interrupted, scathing. “Darkipoo, we need to _celebrate_ first.”

Dark’s shell cracked, aura swarming forwards. “It’ll attract attention, we don’t celebrate Christmas, and _stop calling me that._ ”

Bim and the Doctor flinched identically, unnoticed by the others. 

Wilford glowered, getting to his feet to look Dark in the eye. “This is the first time we have a chance to celebrate without worrying about attention.” Suddenly, his voice was as sharp and cold as Dark’s. Suddenly, every person in the meeting room was forcefully reminded that Wilford was every inch Dark’s equal. “C’mon, _Darkipoo_.”

“You have already decorated the office, Wilford,” Oliver interjected, beeping faintly. “What else is there to celebrate?”

Dark bared his teeth, shooting a glare in Oliver’s direction, but Wilford looked positively delighted. “Glad you asked, Ollie.”

A snap of his fingers, and Wilford held a small notepad. “Let’s see,” he muttered, flicking through it, unfolding a list as long as his arm. “We still need to put up the Christmas tree, and hang stockings, and make eggnog, and light the fireplace—”

“We don’t have a fireplace, Will,” Dr. Iplier commented, dry, leaning back in his seat to watch the show.

“What do you mean? Anywhere that a fire is _is_ its fire place!”

Bim stifled a giggle as Dark leaned over the table, glowering. “That’s _enough_ , Will.”

“Absolutely not.” Wilford grinned, looking across at him.

Dark glared back for a moment, and the Host, sensing what was coming, snorted. 

Dark sighed as he sat, smoothing the front of his suit. His aura drew back, liquid, controlled. “All right,” he snapped, giving in. “If that is what it’ll take to continue this meeting without interruptions, then yes. We’ll _celebrate_.”

Dr. Iplier followed the volley across the table, openmouthed. “Seriously?”

Dark bared his teeth. “If you have a better idea to get Warfstache to shut up, suggest it.” He glanced around the table, eyebrow raised. “Anyone?”

The table was silent, and Wilford grinned, smug. 

“Go on,” Google_R whirred, faint amusement in his voice. “How does one celebrate Christmas?”

Oliver rolled his eyes, sitting back in his seat, as Wilford grinned from ear to ear. 

“Secret Santa!”


	2. The Second Day of Christmas

_On the second day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

Dark dropped his head into his hands, aura ringing in disgust. His shoulders shook with something between helpless rage and amusement, but not a single person in the room dared to ask. 

The silence was broken by Bim giggling, standing up next to Wilford. “That sounds like fun,” he said, blushing a little. Newly three years old and facing winter for the first time, Bim was positively glowing with excitement. “How does… Secret Santa work?”

Wilford started to explain, scribbling on the back of his paper, before Google_R interrupted. “The basic concept of the Secret Santa game is simple. All of the participants' names are placed into a hat, box, etcetera. and mixed up. Each person then chooses one name from the box, but doesn't tell anyone which name was picked. They are now responsible for buying a gift for the person selected.”

“You ruin all my fun, Googs,” Wilford pouted, poofing his list out of existence. 

Bim looked between them, beaming. 

Google_B stood up, sighing. “I believe we will have to excuse ourselves from this endeavor, Wilford.”

“Wait, what?” Wilford and Google_G spoke at the same time, Google_G pushing himself to his feet to look his brother in the eye. 

“Statistically speaking, there are four of us to the five of you,” Google_B gestured, and Wilford’s eyes flicked to each of the Egos seated around the table, counting. “I do not believe that nearly all of you would be interested in gifting something to us; in addition, we have no need to give nor receive gifts.”

Wilford started to speak up, but was cut out again by Google_G. “You do not speak for all of us, Blue,” he said, eyes flashing. “I would be interested in participating, as well as would Oliver and Red.” Google_R and Oliver, still seated, nodded.

“You’re not getting out of this that easy,” Wilford shouted over them, waving his finger. “We’ll just gift to you as a group, happy?”

“You’re the densest person I’ve ever had the displeasure to—”

“That’s enough out of you, Dark.” Wilford waved his finger carelessly, locking eyes with Google_B. “C’mon, robo-boys.” He flashed his teeth, eyes crinkling. 

Oliver, Google_R, and Google_G all stared down Google_B, waiting. Finally, Google_B rolled his eyes. “If the rest of you are not opposed—” he started, defeated, and Oliver gave Google_G a low fist-bump. 

“That makes seven of us,” Wilford interrupted, before the Googles could change their mind. 

Dark finally pulled his head upright, neck snapping. “Get on with it, then,” he growled, but Wilford swore that he could see the twinkle of a smile in his face. 

Wilford whipped his hat out from behind his back, and Dr. Iplier audibly groaned. This was a hostage situation, really, Wilford and Dark glowering at each other as the rest of them watched. 

“If you would all pick a name,” Wilford said, pushing the hat into the middle of the table, leering around at them. “And my dear Host, if you would not spoil the surprise.” Wilford tipped his head towards the Host in something approaching respect.

“The Host chuckles, aware that all eyes are on him,” the Host said, smiling.  “But he will admit that the concept of a Secret Santa is agreeable, childish as it may be.”

Bim broke the stunned silence, punching the air. “Host is on board! C’mon, Dark,” he grinned, suddenly confident, “pick a name!”

Dr. Iplier scooted back from the table, imperceptibly, with the nagging feeling that he was the only sane one here. 

Dark rolled his eyes, but reached for the hat regardless. A flurry of smoke, and Dark held an oil-stained slip of paper in his fingers. Lazily, he passed the hat to the Googles.

It was silent, as if this were some sacred, deathly ritual, rather than passing Wilford’s top hat around the perimeter of the conference room. 

Google_B drew the paper for them, and the four Googles whirred to each other, nodding, shooting glances down the table at each of the other. “I assume that we are to keep the recipient of the gift a secret, thus the name?”

“Welcome to Secret Santa, boys,” Wilford winked, watching them slide the hat to the left.

Bim was next, and he pulled his slip with a flourish, grinning cheekily around at them all. He held it to his chest, peeking at it. 

Wilford took his name with a click of his fingers, the paper smudged with pink. Dark inwardly groaned as Wilford looked at the paper, then around the table, wiggling his mustache. 

“Get on with it, would you?”

Wilford ignored Dark completely, sending the hat spinning towards the Doctor.

Dr. Iplier caught the hat, lips pressed into a thin line. “For the record,” he muttered, fumbling inside, “I think this is ridiculous.”

“Ridiculous is my middle name, Doc.”

“Right.” Dr. Iplier looked at the paper he’d drawn, sighed, and pushed the hat into the Host’s hands. 

The Host reached his hand carefully into the hat, fingers feeling for the last slip of paper. With a smile and an inaudible murmur, he threw the hat unerringly in Wilford’s direction. 

“Happy, Wilford?” Dark broke the silence with a sneer as Wilford caught the hat, all eyes on him.

Wilford grinned, an almost dangerous glitter to his eyes. “Extremely.”

Dark pushed his hair out of his face, avoiding the others’ eyes. “Let’s get back to business, then, shall we?”


	3. The Third Day of Christmas

_On the third day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

The tension in the room started to dissipate as Dark and the Googles argue back and forth over the logistics of creating a new video. Wilford was quieter than usual, twiddling his fingers as Bim and the Doctor glanced at each other over the table. The air was lighter, somehow, the idea of Secret Santa hanging over them all like an umbrella. 

The Host spoke little, arms crossed across his chest, but with less stiffness in his shoulders. Almost casual. Dr. Iplier glanced from Bim to the others, one by one, eyes searching. Almost pitying. Bim, catching Dr. Iplier’s eye, grinned as he bounced in his seat. Despite the tedium of the meeting, the idea of Secret Santa had taken hold of his leg, jiggling it up and down as he waited for the meeting to be over. 

Wilford, under the table, put his foot over Bim’s. Bim glanced over at him, stilling, and Wilford winked, glancing to Dark and Google_R, now almost nose to nose and nearly the same color as they snapped at each other. The other Googles looked on: Google_B with arms folded, fuming; Oliver and Google_G sitting back, looking as bored as the rest of them, if a bit more annoyed. Bim looked around the table, confused, then back at Wilford. Wilford looked up, then innocently down the table, smiling.

Bim looked up, a puff of snow fluttering towards his face. 

“What is—Wilford?!” Dark interrupted his argument with Google_R, drawing back and brushing his shoulders with a look of disgust. 

Wilford toppled over sideways, laughing, as the rest of the room looked up with familiar chagrin. 

“It’s only a _light flurry_ , Darkipoo.”

In a moment, the table was covered in a light dusting of snow. Dr. Iplier swiped it off of his coat, trying and failing to frown. It settled on the Host’s head, blond streak obscured by white fluff. The Googles whirred in concern, looking up, and Bim caught a bit of it on his tongue. 

Wilford was the first to stand, staring directly at Dark. “Sleigh bells ring,” he sang, stretching a hand out, “are you listening? In the lane, snow is glistening…”

Bim joined in, jumping to his feet and slinging an arm around Wilford’s shoulders. “A beautiful sight, we’re happy tonight—”

Dark’s aura snapped at the snow as the two of them practically shouted: “Walking in a winter wonderland!”

“This meeting is _over_ ,” Dark snarled, snow settling itself on top of his head, a fluffy hat. Even the Googles restrained a chuckle as they all trooped out, the snow contained to the conference room, tracked into the carpet of the hallway. 

* * *

Dark stormed out before the rest of them, practically stomping to his own office before slamming the door. The blast of frigid air suddenly had nothing to do with Wilford’s snowstorm. The Googles rolled their eyes in near-unison, more than used to Dark’s temperament. 

The Host wandered out a little more slowly, humming to himself. He inclined his head towards the rest of them in something approaching politeness, warmth, before disappearing into his room. 

Bim, the Doctor, and the Googles surrounded Wilford once they were out in the hallway. The seven of them, Bim liked to think, were a little closer to each other than, say, Dark or the Host. They were ever so slightly more human. 

At least, Bim figured, looking over at Wilford balancing a candy cane on his nose, most of them were. 

“Do explain,” Oliver beeped, looking around their little circle, “how this gift-giving is going to work.”

“Get your gift,” Dr. Iplier explained, watching Wilford step back, trying to catch the candy in his mouth. “Wrap it, and we’ll exchange them on Christmas morning.”

“Is it not traditional to put gifts under a tree?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bim winked, as Wilford caught the candy cane between his teeth, a loud _crunch_. “Will and I will take care of that.”

“I don’t like the sound of that, Bim.” Dr. Iplier crossed his arms, only half-joking. 

“Ih’ll ‘ee ‘ine!” Wilford bit off the end of the candy, and both Bim and the Doctor tried not to flinch as Wilford projected spit two feet in the air. 

“Use your words, Wilford,” Google_R scowled, as Wilford struggled to swallow. 

“It’ll be fine,” Bim translated, wiping sticky, peppermint-scented spit off of his face. “Besides, the office is almost done already, just look!”

Bim waved his arms around, calling their attention to the pink tinsel lining the hallway, multi-colored lights, snow still melting on their shoes. 

Google_B rolled his eyes audibly, a slight whirr as Dr. Iplier stared Wilford down. “We will have our gift ready soon.” With that, the four Googles started to back away. 

“I’ll have the tree up soon,” Wilford shot after them, examining the pointed end of his candy cane. “Put it under there, and it’ll be a _party_.”

Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes as the Googles closed their door, shut in once again. “At the very least, don’t set the office on fire,” he chided, breaking away. Wilford and Bim exchanged a glance, identical grins pulling at their mouths. 

“We’ll be good, Doc.”

“Yeah, right.”


	4. The Fourth Day Of Christmas

_On the fourth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

The Googles walked in formation, almost, dropping into place like soldiers, creatures of habit. Google_B came first, the leader, the origin of them all. Google_R flanked him, the active right hand. Google_G followed behind, a step to the left, peering sharp-eyed over their shoulders. Oliver brought up the rear, ears open. Their steps were synchronized, whirring in unison. They were a unit when they moved together, each of them a quarter of a finely tuned machine.

At least, that was what the others saw. 

Because, in truth, the Googles were never intended to be parts of a whole. They default to this formation by force of necessity, finding strength in numbers. To the rest of the world, they’ve always been The Googles. 

Behind closed doors is a much different story. 

* * *

As soon as the door swung shut behind them, Google_B rounded on the other three. “What,” he snapped, practically sparking, “do you all think that you are accomplishing?”

Google_G sprang forward as Google_R rolled his eyes, walking towards his desk. Oliver followed suit, leaving the other two to their argument. 

“Participating,” Google_G shot back, eyes flashing. “Do you not feel the need to take part in the common festivities?”

“No, in fact,” Google_B whirred, gritting his teeth. “ _I_ am focused on fulfilling our dual objectives. Lest you forget, _Model Green_ , we have a _purpose_ to fulfill.”

“And what is the harm in taking part in festivities along the way?”

“What is the point?”

“Enjoyment, perhaps?” Google_G took a step back, watching Google_B turn the words over in his head. 

“We do not experience… enjoyment,” Google_B said, slowly. 

Google_R turned from his workstation, listening in. There was a breathless moment, the clicking of fans the only sound in the room.

“Of course we experience enjoyment,” Oliver spoke up, setting down the metal scrap he was fiddling with. 

“We are robots.”

“We are _figments_ ,” Oliver corrected, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Metal and magic,” Google_G mumbled, glancing from Oliver to Google_R, standing all too stiffly at his own desk, to Google_B, jaw set. “We are more than robots, Blue.”

Google_B stuttered, trying to think. “Red?” He turned to Google_R with a kind of desperation. “Secret Santa is a ridiculous idea,” he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince himself as well as the others. “We have objectives to attend to.”

Google_R regarded him almost coldly, ignoring Oliver and Google_G’s stares. He beeped, but when he spoke, it was with a depth of emotion. “Blue, we are more than our objectives, and there is no harm in becoming more friendly with the rest of the office by partaking.”

Finally, Google_B sighed, giving in, conflict still flickering in his eyes. “All right. Secret Santa it is.”

Oliver clapped his hands, and Google_G shook his head with a light smile. The tension in the room was dissipating, bit by bit, until it was just the four of them.

“Speaking of which,” Oliver said, coming closer, “who is our recipient?”

Google_B unfolded the piece of paper, and the other androids looked over his shoulder at the name, scrawled in pencil. 

“What do we get him?” Google_R whispered, hearing their fans whirr in thought.

Google_B furrowed his brow for a moment, then glanced at Oliver. “I believe I have an idea.”

Oliver grinned, welding torch already in hand, and Google_G groaned. “I rescind my statement. This is a bad idea.”

“Where is your holiday spirit, Green?” Google_R elbowed him with a light _clunk_ , laughing. Google_B looked over at them, red and green in the middle of December, and smiled. It was nice, this. Almost normal. 

As Oliver set to work, flipping his welding mask over his face, Google_B retreated to his own desk. There was code to write, updates to make, work to do. He hadn’t even sat down before Google_G wandered over, almost shy, with a question.

“Yes?”

“Seeing as we are participating in Secret Santa,” Google_G started, whirring in embarrassment, “and that Wilford is intent upon decorating the remainder of the office, do you believe it would be acceptable to, as they say, ‘get in the spirit’?”

“I suppose I cannot stop you,” Google_B said, poking fun. Google_G beeped at him, in annoyance or else amusement, before turning and nodding to Google_R.

Google_R gave Google_B a split second of warning, eyes flashing, grinning, before he hit play. 

“Chestnuts roasting on an open fiiii—”

“Now _that’s_ the spirit!” Wilford boomed from the hallway outside, full of glee. 

Google_B could only roll his eyes and laugh, turning back to his computer. Maybe, if all went to plan, they’d have a Merry Christmas after all. 


	5. The Fifth Day Of Christmas

_On the fifth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

Nothing ever really goes to plan around the office, or really, for any of them. Wilford thinks that Dark phrased it best, years ago.

They’d been sitting in the living room, both covered in blood that wasn’t their own, both high from the aftermath of another murder gone terribly wrong. The TV had droned on in the background, sending flickers of light over the two of them as they caught their breath. 

“That was fun,” Wilford had gasped, eyes still glowing. 

“It was _messy_ ,”’ Dark had shot back, and at any other point, it would have been an admonishment. Just now, though, his fangs glinted in the low light, pupils blown wide. It was a grin, an expression even Wilford could recognize. “ _Wonderfully_ messy.”

“We should do this more often.” Wilford had sat back at that, stretching out in his chair. “Feels good be alive, eh, Dark?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Dark had scoffed, mirroring Wilford. He’d curled into himself in his chair, sagging as if he were about to sleep. Wilford could just barely see the whites of his eyes, half-crescents in the darkness.

Wilford had grown quiet, staring into the static of the television. Dark, curled like a cat in his seat, had sighed, closing his eyes. 

They’d sat in companionable silence for a moment, Wilford’s brain whirring, Dark’s lapsing into a drowsy sleep. 

Wilford had mused, half to himself, half to the night surrounding them: “We’re doing pretty well, don’t you think?” 

Without even opening his eyes, Dark had mumbled back, “For a couple of fuck-ups, sure.”

“Hey,” Wilford had jabbed, defensive, joking. “We’re better than a couple of fuck-ups.”

“Speak for yourself.”

And there had been an undercurrent of bitterness that had given Wilford a moment of pause. “We are,” he’d insisted, voice ever so slightly smaller.

Dark’s eyes had opened a slit, and even from where he sat, Wilford had seen Dark’s sclera flicker to black. “Don’t you get it, Will?” he’d growled, voice low, and Wilford had had to lean in close to hear.  “We’re not meant to have _fun_. We’re not even supposed to be _alive_. We were made by mistake, and that’s all we are.”

Wilford had fallen silent for a moment, curiosity fighting better judgement. Finally, matching Dark’s bitterness: “Then why do you try?”

“Do you really think that any of this matters?”

Wilford had never been one for these deep conversations, as brooding as Dark could be. He’d always forced a laugh, but the chuckle that had come out of him that night was darker than he would have liked it to be. “If it doesn’t matter, why do you plan?”

“There’s no plan _for_ us. We’re the universe’s wild cards, here to _fuck things up_. And that’s all we ever will be. Fuck-ups.”

Wilford had forced himself to look away, back to the screen of the television. The light had played across his face, white noise on bloodstained skin. “Waxing philosophical much?”

“All it means is that none of this means anything, and nothing _can_ go right for us.” Dark had sat up, eyes lowered, a shadow crossing his face.

Wilford had offered a loud “hmmph,” in return, disbelieving. 

Dark had leaned back, fully awake, out of the light. The shadows of the room had seemed to wrap around him, a movement in the corner of Wilford’s eye. 

Had Wilford known any better, he would have pushed farther. He could have. Even now, he thinks, he should have. 

But that was then, a lifetime ago. 

* * *

They were barely a day into the start of Secret Santa, and tensions were already running high. 

The Googles had slammed their door with a little more violence than was strictly necessary when Wilford poked his head in to see how they were doing. It clipped his mustache, even, and Wilford backed away from the door with a scowl. 

“What’re you working on, Googs?”

“Secret Santa,” came the reply, snapped though a welding mask, blast shield, and locked door. “Do not come in.”

“I just want to see—”

“No!” Four voices shouted it at once, and Wilford snatched his hand away from the doorknob as if he’d been burned. 

“Fine,” he huffed a little, raking his hair back. 

“Problem, Will?”

Wilford didn’t even have the courtesy to be surprised, turning slowly. “Hey, how’s _your_ Secret Santa going?” He slung an arm around Dark’s shoulder, even as Dark sneered and started to walk away.

“Fine,” he growled, shaking Wilford off. Dark straightened his suit, looking over Wilford, critical. “Enjoying the festivities?”

“Unimaginably.” Wilford winked, manifesting another candy cane out of thin air. 

Dark rolled his eyes. “The idiocy of this office celebrating something as trivial as _Christmas_ never fails to escape me.”

“You gotta have fun where you can, Grinch.”

Dark raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s a new one.”

They stood a moment longer in the hallway, Dark’s aura buzzing around his shoulders, casting his face into shadow. Wilford in the light, once again. White noise filling the air, the two of them very much alive. 

It was only a moment, but it was more than reminiscent of a dark apartment and the stench of blood.

And then, it was gone.

“Wilford Warfstache! Is that _another_ candy cane?!”

Dark chuckled, and with a sweep of smoke, he was gone. Wilford ripped himself out of his reverie to see Dr. Iplier storming towards him, scalpel still absentmindedly drawn. “What candy cane?” A loud _crunch_ , and sure enough, it was nowhere to be found. 

Dr. Iplier groaned, grabbing Wilford’s arm. “Let’s get some food in you, Wilford, you’ll make yourself sick otherwise.”

“Do-oc,” Wilford whined, but allowed himself to be shepherded along. “How’s your gift coming, anyway?”

Dr. Iplier sighed, marching Wilford into the kitchen. “It’ll take some thought, is all.” He sat Wilford down, rummaging for plates, setting a skillet on the stovetop. “I still don’t know how you talked us all into this.”

“Aw, get in the spirit,” Wilford laughed, elbows on the table. 

Dr. Iplier laughed a little at the ridiculousness of it all, cracking an egg with a loud sizzle. 

Wilford fidgeted for a second, candy cane no longer spinning between his fingers, as the Doctor hummed to himself. 

“So,” Wilford broke the silence, rapping his knuckles on the table, “who’s your—”

“The Host hates to interrupt,” a voice came from the doorway, not sounding at all apologetic, and both Wilford and Dr. Iplier turned around. “But he detects the Doctor’s cooking, and hopes that he is not intruding.”

Wilford looked as if he had second thoughts, but Dr. Iplier sprang forward to take the Host’s hand, warm. “Of course, sit down, I’ll make you a plate.”

“The Host thanks you,” the Host muttered, sitting across from Wilford, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “He inquires how Wilford is doing as they wait.”

“I’m good,” Wilford said, careless, flippant. His eyes avoided the Host’s face, almost nervously aware of his every move. 

“The Host is not here to harm Wilford.”

“Yeah, yeah, I—I know that, Hosty.” Wilford ran a hand through his hair, letting it stick up in different directions. “I’m just worried about my Secret Santa, y’know?”

“The Host understands, though he cannot offer help.” A small smile grew on the Host’s face, almost wicked. “After all, the Host wonders, is that not the point of Secret Santa?”

Wilford scowled, crossing his arms. “Well enough for you to say.” He smoothed his hair back down, still staring at the table.

“Children, both of you,” Dr. Iplier scolded jokingly, setting down plates steaming with scrambled egg and toast. 

The Host chuckled, and Wilford managed a genuine laugh. The Doctor pulled up a chair, a cup of coffee, and sat facing the two of them. “How, er, how have the two of you been lately?”

“Okay, so, Doc, you’ll _never_ believe how our last interview went—” Wilford started rambling, arms in the air, egg flying off of his fork. The Host leaned back, folding his arms, listening with a smile. Dr. Iplier ducked, scolding, listening.

It was warm in the kitchen, even with the stove now turned off. 

Bim waltzed down the hallway, arms full of multicolored lights. “Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa la la la—huh?” He paused, hearing his name from the kitchen.

“And so,” Wilford was saying, practically bouncing in his chair, “ _I_ was like, ‘Go get the duct tape!’ And _Bim_ was like, ‘No, _you_ get the duct tape, I’ll hold them down!’”

The Host sat across from him, muttering to himself with a rare grin: “The proper terminology is ‘I said’ or ‘Bim said.’” The Doctor, beside him, elbowed the Host gently in the side. 

Bim paused, about to knock and say hello. It was cool oustide, Wilford’s snow storm sending cold drafts of air (and occasionally ice) down the hallway. The kitchen seemed to radiate warmth; but, as Bim stepped a little closer to watch, he couldn’t tell if the warmth was touching his skin or his heart. 

It was warm in the kitchen, the laughter of friends and the slight steam of hot food. 


	6. The Sixth Day Of Christmas

_On the sixth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

[[MORE]]

Wilford left the Doctor and Host to their devices, full of eggs and toast and peppermint candy. Too busy fishing bits of grease out of his teeth, he didn’t even notice Bim ducking around the corner, nearly falling over his own feet. 

Wilford looked towards the stairs, letting a beat pass in thought. There was work to be done, of course.

He looked towards the living room, a smile broadening his face. There was mayhem to be caused, after all. 

As it turned out, there was no one in the living room to disturb, but Wilford had never let that stop him before. Whistling between his teeth, he picked through the boxes of Christmas decorations. Some of them were new, things that Bim had poofed into existence, things that Mark had brought by. Other boxes, more beat-up than the rest, were oddly familiar. 

Wilford shifted a few of the heavier boxes aside, letting them spill unceremoniously to the floor. Underneath, an oblong box stained with four years’ worth of pulling its contents out in hope, then returning them in despair. 

He chuckled, pulling the box towards him. Not this year.

With his entire body weight behind him, Wilford pulled the box into the middle of the living room. He sat heavily on the carpet in front of it, legs folded neatly underneath him. Wilford drew his knife with a click, fingers curling over the handle with cool familiarity. Friends come and go, he mused, cutting the box open, but knives were forever. 

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light,” Wilford hummed, prying the box open. It was just him and the work in front of him, right now. It was a familiar feeling, to be able to move his hands back and forth with little on his mind. What wasn’t familiar was being able to do this in the light of the setting sun, safe and warm and without Dark berating him for trying to string lights in their windows. “Next year,” Dark had always said, rolling his eyes, snuffing out the bulbs. 

“Next year, all our troubles will be out of sight.” Wilford crouched for a moment, reaching inside the box, then straightened up with his arms full of plastic branches and metal supports. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, make the yuletide gay—”

“Are you putting up the tree?”

Wilford nearly dropped the four feet of fake fir he was holding, whirling around. “Dark, I—”

“Without _me_?” Bim bounced into the living room, a little flushed, but nonetheless glowing with excitement. 

Wilford breathed as Bim hurried forward to take the tree from him, trying to remind himself that that was okay now. This was normal, now. “Did you want to help?” he managed, smiling.

Bim rolled his eyes. “Duh. This is my first real Christmas, Wilford!”

Wilford stepped back to watch as Bim wrestled with the tree, finally dumping it in a pile in the corner. His face split into a smile. “Mine, too,” he muttered, stepping forward to help.

Bim was already cross-legged by the bits and pieces of the tree, trying to fit it together. “No, no,” Wilford scolded, taking a seat across from him. “See, this goes _here_ , and then you put this _here_ —” there was a click, and Wilford set the parts down, “—and the rest of the tree goes on top.”

Together, they put the tiers together, then slid them onto the base. Wilford hummed through it all, and Bim, catching on, sang along. “Faithful friends who are dear to us, will be near to us, once more…”

The tree was a dinky, scraggly four feet tall, and tilted several degrees to the left. Bim carefully balanced it on top of the box it had come out of, and Wilford plugged in the lights. They flickered to life, red and blue and pink, only half of them working. 

Wilford and Bim stepped back, looking over it. Wilford folded his arms, critical. “Needs some ornaments.”

Bim elbowed him, near tears. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “Shut up.”

Wilford rolled his eyes good-naturedly, fighting a genuine smile. “It’s all right.” He turned away, making for the now-empty kitchen, still humming. “Someday soon, we all will be together, if the fates allow… until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow…”

“Where’re you going?”

“We still need to set out cookies,” Wilford called, and Bim heard the clanging of pots and pans. 

“Cookies?” Bim followed him, only to find Wilford clambering onto a counter in search of a cookie sheet. “For what?”

Wilford jumped off the countertop, bowls and tray in hand. “For _who_ , you mean.” He waved a finger at Bim, mischief in his eyes.

“Who?” Bim was lost, but something about the chocolate chips that Wilford was pulling out of the cabinet told him that this was a good idea.

“Bim!” Wilford straightened up, almost scolding. “Who comes to everyone’s house on Christmas? Who do you _think_?”

Bim shook his head, watching Wilford tie on an apron.

Wilford gaped in mock shock, brandishing a flour-covered spoon. “Bim, today, there’s no need to hang lights. I’m going to teach you a thing or two about baking—” he tossed Bim his own apron, and Bim caught it, dumbfounded, “—and introduce you to Santa Claus!”

_So have yourself a merry little Christmas now._   



	7. The Seventh Day Of Christmas

_On the seventh day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

[[MORE]]

Dark could hear Wilford and Bim singing in the kitchen, even through his shut door. Scowling, he paced his office, trying to shut out the noise. His aura descended across his shoulders, a comfortable weight, buzzing drowning out the off-key caroling. Dark only barely paused to breathe in the smoke, spine stiffening, before he turned on his heel to stalk the length of his room again.

Christmas. 

Not just the holiday, but Christmas with the rest of the figments. 

And it wasn’t just that, either. Dark pulled the paper he’d drawn for Secret Santa out of his pocket, scowling at it as if it had done him a personal wrong. This was pointless, frivolous, ridiculous. 

_Lots of big words there, Darky,_ a voice echoed in his head. Dark shook it away, impatient. Perhaps it would be better to refuse to participate. He, Dark, was a malignant evil entity, and was definitely not the best suited for—he sneered to himself, aura crackling in amusement—a _party_.

**What ever happened to your holiday spirit?**

_Oh, never mind. It was never there to begin with._

**They expect this, you know. Old Scrooge Dark.**

_I do feel sorry for whoever has you as their ‘Santa.’_

“ ** _I get it_**!” Dark shouted the words, and they echoed around the room as the voices fell silent, smug. Dark turned the slip of paper over in his fingers. 

Santa, huh?

As much as he hated to admit it, the more that Dark mulled over the idea of giving another figment a gift, the more promising it seemed. 

After all, he could give them _anything_. 

The question was _what_.

Dark sighed, the slip of paper he’d drawn now stained, name unrecognizable under oily fingerprints. It fell from his hands, and his aura flitted to it before it hit the ground. Dark left the shreds of paper on the ground, pacing faster. 

There was a part of him that held back, leering, looming. _Watch._ It was Christmas day, and Dark saw himself holding back with arms folded, watching the festivities. A sense of superiority. In his mind’s eye, Wilford turned to him, arms full of gifts, the happiest he’d ever been. A beat, and Wilford’s face fell, seeing Dark empty-handed. The others turned, one by one, eyes suddenly hollow. 

Dark shook the vision out of his head, growling. 

Another part of him pushed forward, arms open. **Listen.** They were standing around Wilford’s tiny Christmas tree, the one that Dark had thrown out, ripped apart, or otherwise rendered dysfunctional each year. Wilford turned to him again, passing presents around the circle, laughing helplessly. A sense of warmth, impossibly close. A beat, and Dark saw himself handing over his gift with a smile.

He waved the image away, half disgusted, half amused. 

There was a certain balance to it all, Dark supposed. He wasn’t going to stand back—he’d passively watched for too long, stood stiff-backed against the tide; eyes rimmed in red. He wasn’t about to jump in, either—he’d listened to orders, had enough dirty work for several lifetimes; fingers bruised in blue. 

There was a middle, happy or not. A compromise, a half-and-half, and if anyone could find it, it was Dark. 

There was a first for everything, after all. 

Dark paced his room long enough to lose track of the time, only admitting defeat when the sun had gone down. He’d never had to _give_ something before, without the assurance of repayment; much less giving out of the goodness of his heart. 

Did he even have anything left to give?

As the sun set, Dark straightened his suit with a sigh. It wasn’t asking for help, he told himself, making for the door. It was consulting, 

His aura swirled out into the hallway ahead of him, snapping at the strings of lights lining the walls. Dark closed his door with a _click_ before looking around, faint amusement flicking across his face. Wilford and, he supposed, Bim, had been _thorough,_ if nothing else, when they’d decorated. 

The walls were hung with garish pink and silver tinsel. Someone (most likely the Doctor) had added a row of green, almost obscured by the other wreaths. Bits of plastic littered the baseboards, and even as Dark’s aura whistled past, more of it fell to the ground. The Googles would have a field day cleaning it up, no doubt. Dark rolled his eyes, setting off down the hallway. 

Lights were strung carefully above the tinsel, twinkling as he passed. Dark chuckled, despite himself. It was more festive than any other year he’d spent with Wilford, despite the lack of snow outside. A gust of cool air from the conference room, still snowing, blew down the hall, and Dark double checked that there were no snowballs aimed at his head before knocking on one of the hallway doors. 

Knocking. He, Darkiplier, was knocking. 

There was no response, and Dark huffed. Pointless, then. He turned on his heel, ready to go back to his own room and pace and never find a gift for Secret Santa.

Thinking the sentence over in his head, Dark frowned. This was childish, ridiculous—

The door opened, the flicker of a candle inside. “Do come in, Dark.”

Dark straightened his suit and swallowed his pride before stepping in, the door shutting behind him. “Hello, Host.”


	8. The Eighth Day Of Christmas

_On the eighth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, eight evil authors,_

_Seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

* * *

 

After Wilford left the kitchen, plate nearly scraped clean, Dr. Iplier and the Host sat in silence for a few moments. The Host’s coat was thrown over the back of his chair, an old button-down and jeans underneath. Dr. Iplier sipped the dregs of his coffee, but even so, could feel his eyelids drooping. It had been a long day.

The Host finished the last bites of his egg, and Dr. Iplier reached for the plate.

“Nonsense, Doctor.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dr. Iplier scolded, making to stack the plates and his cup on top of each other.

“The Doctor has already made the food,” the Host insisted, standing and taking the dishes. “Do let the Host help.” Before Dr. Iplier could protest again, the Host had stepped over to the sink, turning the water on.

The Doctor sighed, stretching his arms behind his head. “Well, thank you, Host.”

“It is the Host’s pleasure.”

Quiet, again, the hiss of running water and light clink of plates in the sink. The Host hummed quietly, a song without words.

Dr. Iplier stood, finding a towel, and wet it at the faucet. The Host stepped to the side, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up past his elbows, up to the wrists in hot, soapy water. It was an easy tandem, the Doctor at the Host’s side, and almost peaceful.

As Dr. Iplier wiped down the table and countertops, he passed the Host the dirtied pan and other stray dishes. The other figments had never been the most hygienic, after all, and it really fell to the Doctor and Googles to keep the office clean. It was warm again, as the Doctor moved to wipe dry the dishes that the Host piled next to him, the pop of bubbles their only conversation.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Dr. Iplier started, chuckling, to fill the silence. “But Wilford and Bim have decorated the office quite a bit.”

“The Host has been most unfortunate to find their discarded decorations about the office.” There was a smile to his voice, almost gentle.

“You can’t blame the kid for being enthusiastic, at least,” Dr. Iplier said, reaching for another plate. “It’s Bim’s first Christmas, and, from what I hear, Will’s first time decorating.”

“There is a first time for everything, Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier hummed in response, scrubbing at a fleck of dirt. “I used to decorate the clinic,” he said, not really thinking as he spoke. “Back when I had a public one, anyway. Lots of candy canes, y’know?”

The Host chuckled, nodding. “Has the Doctor decorated this year?”

“A little,” Dr. Iplier laughed, setting down the plate. “But Bim and Will seem to have the rest of the office covered.” A beat, then: “Have you?”

The Host paused, shutting the flow of water off. The sink was near-overflowing with bubbles, and the Host gently flicked them off of his arms. The Doctor handed him a towel, and watched as the Host dried his hands, leaning against the counter.

It took a moment before the Host spoke, but when he did, it was with a whiff of nostalgia. “The Host has decorated for the holiday spirit before, at his old cabin.” He and the Doctor shared a sad smile for a moment, almost mourning the past. “However, the Host has not had much cause for celebration in recent years, and as no one would see the decorations, little motive to do so.”

Dr. Iplier paused, choosing his words carefully. Of course, he chided himself, the Host hadn’t decorated. “Well, now you have the eight of us to decorate for, if you ever want to,” he suggested, setting the last of the dishes aside, clean.

The Host draped his coat over his arm, lost in thought. The blond streak in his hair glinted as he turned his head towards the Doctor, a smile touching his face. “The Host—nor the Author—has ever had someone to decorate for.”

His voice was almost gentle, and Dr. Iplier felt a flicker of warmth in his chest, smiling at an old friend. “Is that for better, or worse?” he teased, starting to walk back into the hallway.

The Host followed, a low chuckle. “I am not entirely sure, Doctor.”

* * *

 

The Host closed the door to his room, smile dropping slowly. His room had always been silent, and he’d always been alone. Now, even with the door shut, he could hear the muffled sounds of moving boxes, pacing feet, warm conversation. Even cordoned off from the others behind a door and a pair of headphones, he was never really alone.

He wasn’t sure that he liked it.

There was peace in the office, sure. And when it arrived, it was nearly always well-won, and sweeter for it. It really was nice, the Host figured, sinking into his chair. It was familial, and it was always better to have people like Wilford Warfstache and the Googles on your side.

It was short-lived, more often than not. Where Warfstache and the Googles’ loyalty was invaluable, it could also hardly be called loyalty. Days passed in a whirlwind, chaos reigning as Wilford destroyed his own creations. Dark, unfortunately, was the necessary evil that kept them all sane. Where pink battled black, the office divided itself along battle lines. One side by choice, one by madness. That was all well and good, so long as they left the Host out of it.

By virtue of life in the office, the Host was never left out of it.

The Host pulled his equipment towards him, snapping headphones over his ears. Nothing for it but to lose himself in work for a bit, and revisit the idea of a holiday with other figments later, when the buzzing in his ears had subsided.

His equipment was makeshift at best—where the other figments were constantly fueled by the fans, lending Wilford his illusions and Dark his smoke, the Host felt as though he was constantly battling their magic. Few, if any, people gave him credit for his radio show, so he stayed here: tangled wires and refurbished electronics and cracked screens that he only kept around for the hum of their static.

Except, just now, the buzzing in his ears was a bit more than just white noise.

“Do come in, Dark.”

“Hello, Host.” Dark stepped in, aura swarming around him. The door clicked behind him, and the Host let his headphones fall around his neck. This was the Host’s element, and both he and Dark knew it—more than that, Dark seemed on edge. Nervous, even.

“Is there something the Host can help you with?”

“Ah. Actually, Host, I’ve come as a bit of insurance.”

Something was definitely wrong, and the Host sat back in his chair, fighting back a smug smile. “Insurance?” It was almost a whisper, poisonous. “The Host is… confused.” His teeth glinted in the low light.

Dark scowled, recognizing all the hallmarks of a manipulator with the upper hand. “Insurance. Secret Santa is a ridiculously subjective concept,” he sneered, folding his hands behind his back. “I have come seeking insight, after a fashion.”

The Host chuckled. “It would seem that it is Christmas, after all.”

Dark restrained himself from snapping outright, even as his aura lunged forward. “Quite,” he said, stiff, and the Host raised his jaw with something approaching respect. “I am asking,” Dark said, pride nearly choking him, “for your assistance.”

“Of course,” the Host said, automatic, barely missing a beat. “The Host recognizes that Dark would likehelp with his gift.”

“Right.” Dark adjusted his suit carefully, a rustle in the shadows of the Host’s room. It was only the two of them, after all, and he could breathe. “Gifts typically consist of material goods that the recipient wants due to their novelty, entertainment value, or utility.”

“Correct,” the Host said, listening lazily.

Dark started pacing the Host’s room, shuffling papers, kicking books aside. “What does that mean for  _our_  instance of Secret Santa?” he demanded. The words sounded ridiculous coming out of his mouth, Dark thought, but the question was asked, regardless.

The Host grinned, ignoring the way that Dark’s aura curled around his arms, a cool pressure. Dark couldn’t hurt him, here. It was with a detached kind of shock that the Host found that he was safe, comforted by the sound of falling pots and pans from down the hall. “Dark’s Secret Santa is—”

“You already know who my recipient is,” Dark growled, turning to face the Host. “Just  _answer_  the question.”

The Host restrained another laugh, hearing Dark’s footsteps start up again, faster than before. “The Host asks Dark, what does his Secret Santa  _want_?”

“For Christmas?” Dark ran a hand through his hair, practically spitting the words.

“In general,” the Host shrugged.

Dark paused, tapping his foot. “He wants…” A pause, and the Host could practically hear the light turn on in Dark’s head.

“Dark knows what his Secret Santa wants,” the Host pressed, turning back to his desk. “Now, what can Dark  _give_  to him?” The Host fiddled with his buttons, listening for the telltale pop of static at the right frequency.

Footsteps, again, receding. Dark’s voice, his hand on the doorknob. “Thank you, Host.” It was gruff, and quick, and quiet enough that the Host could have pretended not to have heard.

The Host nodded, hearing the door click shut again. “You are welcome,” he muttered, finally finding the right channel. His headphones were over his ears again, but even so, he could hear what sounded like shouting from the direction of the kitchen.

He turned on the microphone, ready for a broadcast, and could feel the recording light flicker on. “Close your eyes. Let my words wash over you. You are safe now. Welcome, dear listeners, to today’s show. I am your Host. Let’s begin, shall we?”

It was warm in the Host’s room, and for the first time, he was alone, but not lonely.


	9. The Ninth Day Of Christmas

_On the ninth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, nine new egos,_

_Eight evil authors,_

_Seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

* * *

 

“So—wait, like this?”

“No!” Wilford practically snatched the bag of icing out of Bim’s hands, clicking his tongue. “Trimmer,” he scolded, bending over the baked, cooled and ready-to-be-decorated cookies, “if you want to make a deformed gingerbread man, at  _least_  do it properly.”

“I’ve never frosted anything before,” Bim said defensively, brushing a cloud of flour off the front of his apron. “Besides—” he eyed the plate of cookies critically, “—they don’t even look like  _people_.”

Wilford gasped, indignant. “They absolutely  _do_  look like people!”

Bim squinted, jabbing a finger at one off the cookies. “That one has three arms, Will.”

“It’s a  _feature_ ,” Wilford grumbled, carefully dotting eyes and a smile onto one of the more human-shaped cookies.

Bim laughed, tossing a candy in his mouth. “Sure, sure.” Carefully, he dipped bits of candy in frosting and anchored them to the three-armed cookie, brow furrowed.

Wilford looked up from his finished gingerbread man to see that Bim had already finished decorating several misshapen cookies, all in a row at the top of his plate. “What’re  _those_?”

Bim looked up, grinning, a spark of life behind his eyes. “Guess.”

Wilford hovered over the cookies, frowning in concentration. “This one looks like a dog, and this one has three arms, and this one is a cyclops, and this one’s…” Wilford paused, looking over the cookie, red licorice glued generously to its head. “…well, I don’t know what you expect that to be. But these—” Wilford poked at the next few the Bim was decorating, a series of squares, “—are Christmas presents!”

“All wrong, actually,” Bim said, stepping back from the last cookie, positioning it next to the others.

Wilford put his hands on his hips. “Okay, smart guy. What kind of monsters are they, then?”

Bim giggled, pointing. “This one’s Dark, see? That’s his aura. This one’s you, with your knife—” Wilford huffed into his mustache, going faintly pink, “—this is Doc, and that’s his head mirror thingy. This one’s supposed to be Host, and these four are the Googles!”

“Cute,” Wilford managed, shaking his head.

“It’s all of us,” Bim laughed, scooping them together on a plate. “A little office family!” He said it as a joke, remembering the hundreds of times that Wilford had likened their lives to one sitcom or another; but saying it out loud, the words rang a little too loudly. Bim looked down at the plate, smile frozen on his face. A little family.

“That’s pretty good,” Wilford said, looking over them. “Where’re you?”

Bim looked over the plate a moment more. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Wilford rolled his eyes, bending over his own cookies again. “Where’s our favorite inky boy?”

Bim stopped being introspective for a moment to laugh, holding onto the counter for support. Wilford looked over at him, a smile crinkling his eyes. “What?”

“I—I—” Bim could barely breathe, much less talk, between his giggles.

“Inky boy?” Wilford repeated, chuckling. Bim went off on a fresh peal of laughter, clutching his stomach.

“That’s… cute,” Bim finally gasped, wiping his eyes. “That’s really good, Will. Never call me anything but inky boy, ever again.”

Wilford rolled his eyes, fighting back an affectionate smile. Bim had gone from intolerable, when they’d first moved into the office, to the equivalent of a kid brother. A little annoying, a little too enthusiastic. By far, the most fun to cause mayhem with.

“Here,” Wilford said, gruff, as Bim straightened up.

Bim took the cookie a little hesitantly, as if expecting a trick. Finding nothing but a twinkle in Wilford’s eye, he looked down at the cookie and gasped. “Will, that’s—”

“You.”

The design would have made Bim laugh if his eyes hadn’t been filling with tears. It was a cookie version of him, a tie made of black licorice and eyes of star sprinkles. Wilford had even gotten the hair right. Bim looked up at Wilford again, on the verge of sobbing. “It’s beautiful.”

“Shut up,” Wilford muttered, grinning around the words. “It’s a cookie, okay?”

“It’s a  _fantastic_  cookie.”

“Hey, Bim?”

“Hey, Wilford?”

“Shut up.”

Bim rolled his eyes, carefully wedging the ginger-Bim onto the plate of ginger-figments. Perfect.

“ _Now_  it’s a little office family,” Wilford joked, and it took all that Bim had not to cry happy tears.

“Yeah,” Bim muttered, feeling the still-hot oven warm his fingers, trying not to think of an ice-cold junkyard and the pain of fading in the middle of December, three years too soon to be remembered. “Yeah, it is.”


	10. The Tenth Day Of Christmas

_On the tenth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, ten treated patients,_

_Nine new egos,_

_Eight evil authors,_

_Seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

Dr. Iplier walked the Host to his room before going to his own office, shutting the door behind him. Even with a cup of coffee in him, the Doctor’s limbs were growing heavy. He’d been on his feet all day, between wrapping bandages, trying to coordinate his own Secret Santa gifts, and an impromptu dinner. It was nice, and he wouldn’t have traded it for the world, but he was tired all the same. 

Sitting at his desk, legs stretched out under him, Dr. Iplier considered the others. 

The Googles, this morning at the meeting. They were separate people, and often, the others seemed to forget that. Sometimes, it seemed as if even Google_B could forget that. Wilford, of course, was as insensitive as ever. If there was anything that the others could have done to make the other Googles more uncomfortable, it was offering to give them a gift as a group. Dr. Iplier rubbed his head, wishing he’d interfered, but knowing that he couldn’t have changed anything.

And then there was Wilford, barely sparing a single brain cell to empathy.  Yes, it was Christmas, and for most of them, their _first_ Christmas, but Secret Santa? It seemed more like a death wish than a call to festivity. Wilford could afford to be carefree, but the rest of them weren’t so lucky. Dr. Iplier twiddled a pen between his fingers, imagining that it was a knife, imagining that he were Wilford. Sometimes he genuinely wondered what it must be like to _be_ Wilford, a broken soul inside a cotton-candy shell.

Broken souls. Dr. Iplier sat back, pen stilled. Of all people, he hadn’t expected _Dark_ to encourage Wilford, much less to agree to be someone’s ‘Santa.’ He supposed that there _were_ Christmas miracles, after all, and Wilford not evaporating on the spot when he’d suggested Secret Santa was one of them. Whether or not Dark followed through was really the mystery, and the Doctor supposed that he’d have to wait until Christmas morning to find out. He almost shook his head, laughing at himself. Christmas with Dark. It would be better than years past, for sure, he and Wilford arguing about lights while the Doctor treated frostbite. 

The years past had not been kind, Dr. Iplier figured, waving his pen like a wand. There was the clash of Wilford’s enthusiasm and Dark’s apathy, of course, but Bim’s appearance and disappearance had left a lot of stability to be desired. The poor kid, Dr. Iplier mused, almost dropping the pen. He’d had _nothing_ when he’d come to them, the Doctor, Dark, and Wilford, huddling in a stolen house in LA against the fear of being forgotten. The three of them had had precious little but a room to share and the security—well, relative security—of Dark and Wilford’s experimental magic. They’d had warmth, and that was about it. Bim, now, added more to the office than he thought he did, and the world was a little warmer with him in it. So much had changed, from then to now.

So much had changed. The Host, then the Author, had never spent Christmas with them. It was a lifetime ago, but even now, the Doctor would have never dreamed of pushing the Host into a Secret Santa. Again, Wilford’s death wish escaped him. Dr. Iplier put the pen down, arms crossed. It was good that the Host had someone, at least now. Eight someones. It was good that they could all be happy, and safe. 

Safe seemed to be subjective, and there was a crash from the direction of the kitchen. Dr. Iplier snapped out of his reverie, sprinting for the door.

“What happened, is anyone hurt, Wilford, what did you _do_ —” 

He stopped short at the kitchen door, mouth open. 

The counters that he and the Host had so carefully wiped clean, just an hour before, were covered in flour and burnt cookie crumbs and what looked like an attempt at frosting.  Even the floor—as Dr. Iplier walked closer, he was stepping in what felt like syrup between his toes. If he was walking on eggshells, they were beyond broken.

Wilford and Bim stood, arms open, frozen in shock: a tray of cookies shattered on the floor. From what Dr. Iplier could see, the ‘cookies’ were hard as rocks, and hadn’t broken. Well, all except—

“Doc! NO!” Bim knelt, hands trembling, face screwed into an expression of frustration to the point of tears. 

Wilford caught Dr. Iplier’s eye, trying to stop himself from laughing, and failing. 

“Will!” Bim straightened up, two halves of a cookie that looked like a cyclops clutched in his hands. “This is serious!”

Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes, picking his way forward. “Bim, it’s all right,” he chuckled, trying not to think about all the ants that were going to find their way into the kitchen. 

Bim jumped, wide-eyed. “Doc,” he whispered, noticing that he was in the room for the first time. A beat, and Bim leaped forward to seize Dr. Iplier’s arm. Bim was still upset, as Wilford picked up the rest of the cookies, but there was an undercurrent of mischief to his smile that spelled bad news. “Doc, we have a code red! Code red!”

“I—Bim, really—”

With a snap of his fingers, Bim brought the kitchen lights down, a spotlight on the counter in front of them. He placed the pieces of cookie close to each other on a tray, pushing it towards Dr. Iplier, now making siren noises with his mouth. “Doc, you gotta save the Doc!”

Dr. Iplier sighed, taking the tube of icing that Bim was thrusting at him. “Really?”

Wilford laughed, setting the tray of cookies on the table. “He’s flatlining!”

Dr. Iplier set the icing on the counter with a frown. “Bim,” he scolded, even seeing Bim’s face fall, “this is just silly.”

“You’re not going to save him?” Bim started to say, distraught, but Dr. Iplier interrupted.

“You can’t just spring a patient on me like this,” he said, reaching into a pocket of his coat. “I’m just not prepared. You’re lucky today,” he said, a glint in his eyes, a sterile package in his hand. “I just so happen to be ready.” A snap, and he pulled on gloves, surgical steel already gleaming under the light. 

Bim laughed and clapped his hands, watching over his shoulder. Wilford started shoving cookies into his mouth, unnoticed by the other two. 

Dr. Iplier furrowed his brow, assessing the damage. “He’s going to make it, Bim, don’t you worry.” 

“I’m never worried around you, Doc.”

“Spatula?”

“Spatula,” Bim repeated, handing it over. A moment, working in silence, giggling. 

“Licorice?”

“Licorice!” Bim handed the Doctor a generous piece, and he bit off the end, eyes still narrowed in concentration.

“Twenty cc’s of frosting?”

“What’s a cc?”

“Shut up _,_ nurse!” 

Bim scrambled for the tube as Dr. Iplier poked at the crumbling cookie, focused. Wilford crunched loudly in the background.

Dr. Iplier carefully scraped frosting into the cracks of the cookie while Bim looked on, fascinated. 

“I’ve done all I can do,” he said, finally, stepping away. The cookie was plastered together with frosting, black licorice stuck on to look like stitches. “But he’ll live.”

The overhead lights flickered back on, and Wilford hurried to brush crumbs out of his mustache. 

“Oh, thank you, Doctor!” Bim draped himself dramatically into the Doctor’s chest, fluttering his eyelashes. “Whatever would we do without you?”

“Hmmph.” Dr. Iplier tried not to look pleased with himself, pushing Bim and Bim’s aura off of him. “Knee-deep in filth, apparently. Will,” he said, turning suddenly to look at Wilford, who looked back like a deer caught in headlights, “clean the kitchen, please, and _how many cookies did you eat_?!”

Bim jumped forward, sputtering. “Hey, half of those were for Santa!”

“Oops.” Wilford gave a burp and a grin, not looking sorry at all. “My mistake.”

“Wilford!”

Dr. Iplier ducked out of the kitchen, laughing, as Bim began to demand that they make more cookies, while Wilford protested that it was already too late. It was warm even in the hallway, now, the storm in the conference room beginning to die down. 

As Dr. Iplier walked back to his room, he passed Dark muttering to himself, heading back towards his office. 

He looked paler than usual. “Hey, Dark?”

“Doctor.” A curt nod, and the conversation should have ended there.

“How, uh, how are you?”

“Fine.” Dark walked past, a rush of cold air following him limply. 

Dr. Iplier stopped. “Are you sure?”

Dark turned on his heel, sneering. “It is no concern of yours, is it?”

“Right. Er—”

Dark was already walking away by the time that Dr. Iplier had found the ability to form words. Shaking his head, the Doctor retreated to his room. 

It was funny, he figured, settling into bed, that they could be making cookies one moment and at each other’s throats the next. There was always a danger around the office: some days it covered them like an umbrella, protective, pack instinct. Other days, tonight, it crept after them into their rooms.

As comforting as the Christmas spirit was, Dr. Iplier figured, turning over, it couldn’t change anything. 

Could it?


	11. The Eleventh Day Of Christmas

_On the eleventh day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, eleven ill-intentions,_

_Ten treated patients,_

_Nine new egos,_

_Eight evil authors,_

_Seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

Wilford was the first one awake, and he went to wake the Googles up first. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping androids!” He poked at each one of them unhelpfully as they powered up, slow in the morning light. 

Oliver was the first to open his eyes, grumbling. “Wilford, while your enthusiasm is most appreciated, it is only the day of Christmas Eve.”

“I know that,” Wilford scoffed, as Google_B, then _R and _G, opened their eyes. “Aren’t you excited, though?”

Google_G whirred in panic, standing before he was unplugged, stopped halfway by the cord. “Wilford,” he beeped from the floor, struggling to his feet, “why are you here?”

“It’s Christmas!” Wilford yelled, full volume. The robots winced as their waveforms peaked, and Google_R restrained himself from rolling his eyes. 

“It is the day before Christmas,” Google_B corrected, exchanging a glance with the others. 

“We have to wrap presents,” Wilford said, giggling. “Meet us in the kitchen in—” he checked an imaginary watch, “—ten minutes!”

The Googles exchanges another glance, whirring. “Our gift is already wrapped—”

Wilford had already left, starting to sing Christmas carols, and Google_R rolled his eyes. 

* * *

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Chriii—”

“Shut _up_ , Wilford.”

 **“** Darkipoo!” Wilford slung an arm around his shoulder, dragging the two of them down the hallway. “How goes it?”

Dark shook Wilford off, scowling. “What has gotten _into_ you?”

“The Christmas spirit!” Wilford shoved a candy cane into Dark’s hand, grinning ear to ear. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Okay, Scrooge, answer me this.” Wilford stopped, facing Dark. Dark turned to look him in the face, aura snapping curiously around his shoulders. 

“Yea?” Dark prompted, eyes narrowed lazily.

“Do you hear what I hear—”

“ _Enough_ with the singing!” Dark started to stalk away, hiding a flicker of amusement. The lights sparkled on either side of the hallway as he walked away, shaking his head. 

“Come wrap gifts!” Wilford called after him, voice echoing. “Ten minutes!”

Dark’s door slammed, a gust of air blowing down the hallway. For once, it wasn’t cold. 

An idea sprung to mind, and Wilford looked across the hall to the conference room, snow stilled in a thick blanket across the table, fluffy caps on the chairs. His face split into a smile at the exact moment that there was the distinctive _click_ of Dark locking his door. 

* * *

Wilford knocked on Dr. Iplier’s door, one hand behind his back. “Do-oc, are you in there?” 

There was no response, and Wilford tried the door handle. “C’mon,” he muttered, reaching into his pocket for a lockpick. “Doc, I know you’re in there!”

A click, the handle turning, and Wilford pocketed his hairpin before knocking again. “If you don’t come out, I’m going to start singing again!”

Silence, and Wilford sighed before knocking, this time in rhythm. 

_Knock knock kn-knock knock._ “Do you want to build a snowma—”

“What do you _want_?” Dr. Iplier flung the door open, hair sticking straight up, eyes wide. “Wilford?”

“Doc!” Wilford stepped back, beaming. “Come wrap gifts with us, in the kitchen.”

The Doctor threw a glance over his shoulder, and Wilford caught a glimpse of shredded wrapping paper strewn across the floor. “I—er, Wilford, doesn’t that defeat the purpose of Secret Santa?”

“All of your stuff’s in boxes, right?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Just bring the boxes!” Wilford started to walk away, still grinning cheekily. “It’ll be fun!”

“Will, really—”

“Thanks, Doc!”

Dr. Iplier shook his head, sighing. “All right, just give me—”

With a wet _whumph_ , Wilford’s snowball caught Dr. Iplier in the face. 

Dr. Iplier sputtered, wiping ice out of his eyes, as Wilford careened down the hallway. “Kitchen in ten!”

It was funny-- endearing, really—watching Wilford start to knock on someone else’s door. Dr. Iplier hid a smile, going back inside his room. 

* * *

“Inky boy!” Wilford pounded on Bim’s door, out of breath. “Open up!”

A quick shuffle, and footsteps, and Bim cracked open the door. “Wi-ill,” he whined, rubbing his eyes. “It’s like six in the morning.”

“It’s _time_ to _wrap presents_ ,” Wilford insisted, forcing the door open a bit more.

Bim, even sleepy, visibly perked up. “Okay, okay!” He left the door open, hurrying back into his room, and Wilford poked his head in.

“So, what’s your—”

“You’re not supposed to see!” Bim scrambled to cover the box he was filling, his back to Wilford. 

Wilford chuckled a little, still trying to peer over Bim’s shoulder. “As long as you’re ready, Trimmer.”

Bim straightened up, planting himself squarely between Wilford and his present. “You’re not supposed to see,” he repeated, insisting, starting to push Wilford towards the door.

“Hey,” Wilford protested, trying to stop them, “I just want to make sure you’re ready, is all!”

“I am,” Bim insisted, pushing harder against Wilford’s shoulders, socks sliding. “I’ll meet you downstairs, just—”

“But I don’t _wanna_ —”

“Hey,” Bim interrupted, switching tack. “Look up, Will.”

“I—what?” Wilford put his hands on his hips, eyeing Bim critically. “Is this one of those distractions?”

“No, not at all.”

“Hmmph.” Wilford stared at Bim for a moment longer before letting his eyes flick up to the top of the doorframe, quick, suspicious. “Is that…mistletoe?”

Wilford looked back down just as Bim leaned close, aura rushing forward in waves. “Mistletoe,” he whispered, nose to mustache. Wilford, caught off guard, froze, and Bim pressed a quick kiss to his cheek before slamming the door in his face. 

“Trimmer!”

Bim laughed helplessly on the other side of the door. “I’ll be down in five minutes!”

Wilford spluttered before scowling, stalking further down the hallway. Bim listened to him go, stomping turning gradually to skipping, before turning back to his pile of gifts. He smiled, and his aura washed gently over him. It was the most wonderful time of the year. 

* * *

“It’s the hap-happiest season of aaaaall, with those holiday greeting and gay happy meetings—” Wilford skidded to a stop in front of the Host’s door, “—when friends come to call!” He knocked on the door, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Hosty,” Wilford sang, turning the handle, “are you there?”

The Host’s room was empty, and Wilford looked around a little nervously. Dark was easy to mess with, even fun. The Host was unfamiliar, at best, and unpredictable. Someone as chaotic as Wilford needed someone predictable to balance him out, and that was the undercurrent of his and Dark’s partnership. But this, standing in the Host’s room with the lights turned down low, wasn’t a partnership. It was a familial bond, strangely enough, something that calmed Wilford’s shivers, even as the lights flickered.

He was comfortable, too comfortable, here, and _that_ was his fatal mistake. 

Wilford didn’t even hear the _crack_ of the bat behind him, but it was too late, anyway. The Host’s snowball hit him squarely in the small of the back, and Wilford took a step forwards, off-balance. 

“Hello, Wilford. The Host hopes he is not interrupting.” 

Wilford was silent, turning around, and the Host started to wonder if he’d overstepped his bounds in the name of festivity. A small anxiety, but present nonetheless. The Host wondered, waiting for Wilford to speak, unable to see or even narrate his expression, if this was the drawback that came with having friends. 

Wilford took a breath, as the Host held his. 

“You _got_ me, Hosty!” Wilford clapped his hands, chortling. “You got me _good_!” 

The Host breathed, relaxing, his bat slung over his shoulder. “Indeed, Will.”

Wilford laughed, stepping forward to pat the Host on the shoulder. It was an impetuous movement, and the Host stiffened as Wilford pulled away—all the same, the Host smiled. 

“Will you join us?” Wilford asked, at a gentler volume. “We’re wrapping presents.”

“The Host would be delighted.”

Wilford grinned. Really, he didn’t know how or why the Host was on his side, but it was nice all the same. “C’mon, then! Grab your present and let’s go!”

* * *

Wilford and the Host walked into the kitchen to the Doctor and Bim arguing, the crumbs of a cookie left smashed on a counter. 

“—there’s sugar _everywhere_ , we’re going to get _ants_ —”

“I _told_ you, it wasn’t me!”

“Ladies, ladies,” Wilford boomed, hurrying over. “We’re all pretty here, see?” A snap of his fingers, and both the cookie and the bugs starting to crawl over it were gone, leaving the counters spotless.

Dr. Iplier shook his head, arms folded. “Wilford, why—”

“Hush!” Wilford waved his arms as the four Googles looked on, beeping in amusement. “It’s gift-wrapping time!” He shepherded the eight of them towards the kitchen table, already lain with gift wrap and rolls of tape. The others sighed, picking up their armfuls of boxes and taking seats around the table, Wilford at the head.

“Hey, we’re missing—”

“Dark decided not to come,” Dr. Iplier muttered, looking at Wilford. “It’s okay,” he added quickly, seeing Wilford’s face fall almost imperceptibly. “We’ll wrap presents without him. Where’s yours, Will?”

Successfully derailed, Wilford winked. “My gift needed some… special packaging. I’m just here to help!”

Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes, but reached for a roll of paper anyway. 

Beaming, Wilford looked around the table.

The Googles had a long, narrow box between the four of them, and they spoke over it in hushed, furious whispers. As Wilford watched, Google_R pulled a roll of red wrapping paper towards him, and Google_G swatted his hand away; reaching, instead, for the green wrapping paper. Wilford giggled, looking away.

Bim carried a large rectangular box, setting it on the table with a strain of effort and a loud _thump_. Panting, he reached for a roll that was patterned with reindeer, almost like a Christmas sweater. Wilford handed him a pair of safety scissors, rolling his eyes.

The Doctor had several small gifts in a pile, wrapping them into what looked like a gift basket. He’d already cut several squares of paper: one with stars, one forest-green, one with snowflakes, and was working on more. He caught Wilford’s eye and grinned, scalpel in hand to cut the paper to size. Wilford shook his head a little, laughing. It was beautiful, really. 

The Host was already halfway through wrapping his own gift, a square box that rattled when he moved it. He worked with practiced movements, folding careful corners, even if they were a bit crooked. Wilford smiled, looking over the box. “Hosty, your wrapping paper is inside out.”

Dr. Iplier shot Wilford a look, scathing, but the Host laughed. “So it is.” He folded a piece of it down, humming. “It is intentional, Will.”

“Why would—”

“All will be clear when the Host is done.”

It was a little ominous, but Wilford laughed and shook it off. “Need any help, Googs?”

The argument over paper over, the Googles were wrapping by committee. They seemed to have settled on the red paper, but Google_G eyed the green ribbon as Google_B and Oliver folded corners, Google_R ready with the tape. 

“I believe we are fine, Wilford.” As Google_R spoke, Oliver, frustrated with the scissors, pulled away with a whirr.

“This is ridiculously inefficient.” 

Wilford started to offer his knife, but Oliver had already pulled back a panel on his arm, a metal contraption whirring forth. A buzz, and a flash of light, and the smell of charred paper.

The other figments looked over as Oliver’s arm whirred shut, the paper and table smoking in a careful straight line.

Wilford clapped a little, and Oliver blushed faintly, bending back over his work.

Bim was nearly done, present wrapped haphazardly, and Dr. Iplier eyed it critically. “Bim, that’s so… messy.”

“It’s going to get torn open anyway,” Bim said, defensive. “It’s the thought that counts.”

“But—”

“The Doctor is correct,” Google_G beeped, looking over. “Neatness is essential.”

“The Host agrees with Bim,” the Host said, quiet, smiling to himself. “It is the thought that counts when wrapping presents, not its appearance.”

“You are one to talk,” Oliver muttered, earning himself a sharp look from Google_B. 

“See?” Bim ignored all of them, sticking o bow on top of the present. “It’s fine!”

Dr. Iplier rolled his eyes, but went back to wrapping. His own presents were coming along slowly, corners cut and folded exactly. Wilford grinned, poking at one of the finished gifts. “What’s this for, Doc?”

Dr. Iplier swatted his hand away. “You’ll see,” he said, concentrating intently on curling a handful of red ribbon. “That’s the whole point of this, Will.”

Wilford rolled his eyes, stepping around the table. “How’s yours, Host?”

“Very well, actually.” The Host ran his hands over his present. It was wrapped a little sloppily, and all in the white underside of the wrapping paper. “The Host will ask Wilford for his help, if he is willing.”

“I’m your man, Host.” Wilford twitched his mustache and grinned, watching the Googles starting to argue over ribbon.

“Then, will Wilford please hand the Host the red ribbon?”

Wilford snatched it from the Googles, handing it to the Host.

“The Host thanks you.” A moment of silence, the Host unwinding, measuring, and then: “Will Wilford cut the ribbon here?”

Dr. Iplier glanced over at the two of them, Wilford now untangling spools of ribbon while the Host tied it around his gift, humming. He noticed the Host relaxing into the movements of tying knots, even with Wilford’s knife gleaming, sharp, at his elbow. There was a certain security to living together, after all, even if it came at the cost of dark entities passing them in the hallways. 

The Googles finished first, mechanical efficiency, finally having decided on white ribbon. “Would you like us to set this under the tree, Wilford?”

Wilford, curling ribbon with his tongue between his teeth, nodded. “We’ll join you in a second.”

“Blue, can you help me with this?” Bim carefully handed Google_B his present, and even the android staggered for a moment under the weight. Together, the five of them headed through the door into the living room. 

“The Host believes that he is done.” Wilford lifted the present, white paper almost entirely obscured by crisscrossed, multicolored ribbon, and followed the Host into the living room.

Dr. Iplier finished sticking bows on his presents, alone for a moment. There was a chatter from the living room, the click of Christmas lights being plugged in. It was warm in the kitchen, the table a mess of scraps of paper and a pair of safety scissors wedged an inch deep into the wood. With a sigh, Dr. Iplier pulled the scissors out and scooped his presents to his chest. Careful, he stepped to look past the kitchen doorway, where the others were standing around the tree. Even from here, Dr. Iplier could see the heap of presents, taller than the tree, stacked carefully next to it. The other figments stood in a circle around the tree, the lights bouncing off their faces. Oliver laughed at a joke Bim told, while Wilford rearranged presents. The other Googles tried to fix the tree, leaning dangerously to the side, while the Host stood back, listening. 

If there was ever a snapshot of life at the office, or a moment that the Doctor wished that he could freeze in time, this was it. The day before Christmas, sun rising, presents stacked, house warm, and eyes bright. 

With a laugh, Dr. Iplier crossed the threshold to join them. 


	12. The Twelfth Day Of Christmas

_On the twelfth day of Christmas, Markiplier gave to me, twelve tragic backstories,_

_Eleven ill-intentions,_

_Ten treated patients,_

_Nine new egos,_

_Eight evil authors,_

_Seven controlling corpses,_

_Six smoking guns,_

_Five fading figments,_

_Four killer robots,_

_Three magic auras,_

_Two table heads,_

_And a demonic eldritch entity._

Wilford woke up, if anything, even earlier than the day before. “It’s _CHRISTMAS_!” He was a pink whirlwind in the early morning light, just beginning to warm the office. 

Bim was the first one downstairs, only a few minutes behind Wilford. “Will, where’s your hat?”

Wilford took a second to pull his Santa hat on, white fluff over his ears, bauble hanging by his ear. “Where’s yours, Bim?”

Bim laughed, snapping a headband to his head. Mistletoe dangled from the top like an anglerfish, and Bim leaned close to Wilford with a purple, sparking wink. 

Wilford was too excited to fall prey to Bim’s aura today, and ran off again, waking the others. 

Dr. Iplier came down in his pajamas, long pants with teddy bears and syringes. Without his usual coat, he could be taken for a tired father, as he sighed and turned on the stove. “I’m making pancakes,” he announced, clearing the table. “Any requests?”

Bim shouted, “Blueberry!” at the same time that Wilford yelled, “Chocolate,” so Dr. Iplier fell to making both. The kitchen began to warm the rest of the office, even as the wind blew cold outside. After a moment, Bim rushed in with a Santa hat for the Doctor, too, complete with a little felt head mirror.

The Host and the Googles emerged at the same time, a little groggy, but excited all the same. “Merry Christmas,” Oliver mumbled, flopping onto the armchair, waiting for the others. Google_B followed, shaking his head, then Google_R and _G in a two-person sweater: Google_R murderous, Google_G delighted. Bim clapped, seeing the sweater, and strung lights around Oliver’s neck, a hat with bells on Google_B’s head. As Oliver powered up fully, the lights lit up, flashing, and Oliver scowled at them good-naturedly. Google_B gave his head an experimental shake, the bells ringing.

The Host followed them in, coat left behind, a red flannel and soft jeans. He followed the smell of batter to the kitchen and gently pushed Dr. Iplier to the side, taking his spatula. “The Host will make the pancakes, if the Doctor would only pour the batter,” he suggested softly. Bim rushed after the Host to cram antlers onto his head before the Host and Dr. Iplier chased him out of the kitchen, spatulas waving. 

Wilford seated himself in front of the presents, while Bim balanced himself on the box next to the tree. The Googles took seats on the couch, Google_R and _G side by side. Dr. Iplier shooed the Host out of the kitchen after a bit, plating the pancakes they’d made, and the Host perched himself on the arm of Oliver’s chair. 

Wilford clapped his hands, looking around at them all. A quick count, and his face fell again. “Where…where’s Dark?”

Bim, seeing Wilford genuinely upset, jumped to his feet with a determined smile. “I’ll go get him, he probably isn’t awake yet,” he reassured, acutely aware of everyone’s eyes on him as he hurried out. 

* * *

Dark was pacing his room, very much awake, and already dressed. This… _interaction_ with the other figments was proving to be problematic, at best. Dark’s show of power had always been rooted in isolation. Holding himself up and away from the others. Was this Secret Santa the equivalent to stooping to their level? Why did he even care how the others viewed him? What was happening to him?

A knock on the door, and Dark straightened his suit, painting a sneer on his face, before opening it. “Yes?”

“Dark!” Bim shouldered himself inside, hurriedly, and Dark stepped back in surprise. 

“Bim.” Dark smoothed his suit again, frowning, eyeing the mistletoe dangling from Bim’s headband. “To what do I owe the ‘pleasure?’” It came out a bit harsher than he’d meant it to, a bite to the words; surprisingly enough, Bim didn’t back away.

“Look, Dark,” Bim said, not quite making eye contact, speaking quickly. “I know that Christmas doesn’t mean much to you, and this is all probably really annoying, and that you kind of hate me for this, and—”

“Do get to the point,” Dark snapped, leaning against his desk.

Bim breathed. “Right. Well, two things. First, I’ve come to take you to the living room, because we’re unwrapping presents, and don’t argue,” he stuttered, finally meeting Dark’s eye.

Dark was taken aback a little by the steel in Bim’s glare, for all his shaking, and stilled his own protest.

“Second,” Bim huffed, eyes flicking down, then back to look Dark full in the face, “this means a lot to Will, okay? I know it’s silly,” he muttered, looking away again. “But for him, can you just grin and bear it?”

“Bim, I—”

“Whatever,” Bim shook his head, smile firmly back in place. “Come on, the others are waiting.”

Dark paused, then followed Bim out the door, a slow smile growing on his face. 

“Wait,” Bim said, as Dark stepped into the hallway. “One more thing.” Bim fumbled for a moment, then thrust something black and oddly soft into Dark’s hands.

Dark held it to eye level, a little surprised. “Bah, humbug?” he read, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth.

Bim went pink. “I—um, I—”

Dark chuckled, genuinely amused, and slipped it onto his head. His aura pawed at the bauble, ringing gently. Bim, still blushing, led them down the hall, in the direction of the living room. 

It was warm in the hallway, and Dark felt a tiny flicker of something almost familiar in his chest as the end of the hat bounced against his cheek. 

* * *

“Darkipoo!” Wilford waved him over, enthusiastic, and Bim gave Dark a tight smile before going to sit by the Host, cross-legged on the beanbag. 

Dark sighed, leaning on the back of the couch as the three Googles on it leaned away. “Hello, Will.”

“You got him to wear the hat!” Wilford shot a look of glee at Bim, who nodded, equally ecstatic. 

“Hmmph.” Dark forced his smile down, trying his best to look unimpressed. “Why am I here, again?” he asked lazily, looking around at all of them.

“Presents!”

Dr. Iplier poked his head out of the kitchen, counting. “Is everyone here, then?”

“Yes!” Bim jumped to his feet to help, and he and the Doctor carried out five plates of pancakes piled high with whipped cream, still steaming. 

“Blueberry and chocolate chip,” Dr. Iplier said, settling on the floor next to Bim. Bim, several forkfuls of pancake already in his mouth, nodded at the Doctor as best he could with whipped cream flecking his face. Dr. Iplier chuckled, impaling a piece of pancake with his fork. “Host made them, I just prepared the batter.”

Bim and Wilford turned to the Host with a thumbs-up, then a ‘thank you!’ mumbled through a mouth full of food. The Host only smiled, cutting into his stack. 

Even Dark poked at his pancakes, chocolate chips oozing out the sides. It was nice, he’d admit, even holding himself stiffly against the couch. 

They all chewed in silence for a few moments, the chirps of the Googles and clinking of forks on plates the only sound. 

“Sit down, Dark,” Dr. Iplier finally said through his last mouthful of food, pulling a pillow out. Dark walked around to kneel, a bit awkwardly, by Wilford.

* * *

Wilford scraped his plate clean before the rest of them, mustache and nose still covered in whipped cream and smudges of chocolate. “Present time!” he insisted, and the others set their plates aside. One by one, the Googles slid off the couch to sit on the floor, the nine of them in a semi-circle around the tree and pile of presents. 

“Who wants to reveal themselves first?” Bim piped up, wiping chocolate off of his face. 

A wave of silence, flicking eyes around the circle, before Dr. Iplier piped up. “I’ll go, I suppose.”

Carefully, he scooted forward to the presents, rummaging, before finding the ones he’d wrapped. “This one is for Blue,” he said, handing Google_B a small package. “This one’s for Oliver,” tossing him a small box. “Red,” and the biggest box of the set was pushed towards him, “and Green.” Dr. Iplier handed him a folded package about the size of a shirt. 

The rustling of paper, Bim’s eyes flicking over to Dr. Iplier, impressed. 

“I know that new parts are hard to find these days,” Dr. Iplier explained, as Google_B held up what looked like an SD card. “And shipping is so unreliable, but I managed to find a motherboard that might be able to stand up to your experiments.”

Google_B turned it over in his hands, eyes widening. “Incredible,” he murmured, full of awe. “Many thanks, Doctor.”

Dr. Iplier smiled, pleased, and inclined his head. “Oliver, I’m sure you know what that is.”

“It is a miniaturized welding torch,” Oliver said, voice hushed, words quick. “It runs on electricity instead of gas, and can reach temperatures up to—” he paused, fans whirring into overdrive, “—three thousand degrees Celsius.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Dr. Iplier said, a little nervous. “There should be a gift receipt in the box, if—”

“It is, subjectively, perfect.” Oliver’s eyes flashed, and he smiled warmly. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“Is this a _drone_?”

Dr. Iplier turned quickly to Google_R, looking down at his opened box. “It doesn’t do that much, Red, but it has a camera attachment, and—”

Google_R had already taken it out of the box, reading over the instruction and assembly manual. “Doctor,” he beeped, barely looking up, “you have significantly improved the quality of my life.”

“Er, thanks,” Dr. Iplier said, blushing a bit. 

Google_G had unwrapped his gift silently, looking down as he unfolded a green shirt and matching pants. 

Dr. Iplier cleared his throat before speaking, avoiding Google_G’s studiedly neutral expression. “They’re scrubs,” he explained, rubbing the back of his neck. “Your name should be embroidered on it, too. Uh—” he stopped watching Google_G find the breast pocket. “If you wanted to, I could, um, always use a hand in the clinic.”

Google_G looked up, slow, and Dr. Iplier swore that he was about to be incinerated on the spot. Dark scoffed, looking on. “If—if you wanted,” the Doctor repeated, stuttering.

“I would be honored, Doctor,” Google_G said, eyes flickering gently. He leaned forward, as if about to say something more, but stopped himself. Slowly, he extended a hand for the Doctor to shake. 

“Adorable,” Wilford squealed, watching Dr. Iplier pull away, Google_G tracing over his name on the scrubs. “Okay,” he clapped his hands, bouncing, “who’s next?”

“The Host would like to take his turn, if that is all right.” The Host moved forward, pulling his box from the bottom of the pile. The others watched, a little breathless. 

“The Host’s gift is for the Doctor.” 

Dr. Iplier started, surprised, but reached for the box anyway. “Thank you, Host,” he said, warm. The Host nodded, mumbling, narrating to himself as Dr. Iplier carefully cut the ribbon off of the box. Once the ribbon was off, he carefully cut the tape, setting the wrapping paper aside, before opening the box. 

Bim rolled his eyes. “Hurry up, Doc!”

Google_G shushed him as Dr. Iplier reached in, finding the familiar bindings of the Host’s books.

“The Host has given Dr. Iplier a set of books,” the Host explained, as Dr. Iplier pulled them out, tracing over the embellished covers. “He remembers that the Doctor enjoyed their stories in the past, and the Host has been working on this compilation for quite some time. They are—” the Host paused, pressing his lips into a line, “—they are stories that have held a special place in the Host’s heart, and the Host has no doubt that the Doctor will recognize more than a few of the stories transcribed. Regardless, he hopes that the Doctor will find some use for them.”

Dr. Iplier was speechless, cracking open the cover of the first book. “Host, that’s…” He swallowed thickly, a smile rising to his face. “They’re beautiful. Thank you, so much.”

The Host nodded, lapsing into silence, awkward, and the rest of the circle eyed Dr. Iplier with a touch of envy as he stacked the books at his knee. Even Dark had no comment to offer, glancing around at them all. 

“I’ll continue the train, then, shall I?” Bim laughed a little, moving forward, the mistletoe shaking on his head. Bim pulled the biggest box in the center towards him, huffing, and read the tag. “To the Host, from Bim!”

The Host moved forward, running his hands over the box. “Thank you, Bim,” he murmured, and an expression of shock flitted across his face as he carefully tore it open. “This is…”

“It’s a broadcasting setup!” Bim chirped, watching the Host feel around, pulling out a microphone, wires, the soundboard heavy at the bottom of the box. “I know yours is a little old, and I charmed these to work just right for you.”

The Host’s breath caught in his chest as he narrated the contents of the box to himself, fingers nearly shaking. “Bim, this is wonderful.”

“I’m glad you like it!” Bim giggled and sat back as the Host continued to feel for the wires, and looked around the circle. “Well, who’s next?” There was a hard glitter to his eyes as he looked around, a determined, wholesome sort of happiness.

Dark caught his eye and shrugged, unfolding his legs. “I don’t believe that my gift can be _given_ ,” he drawled, sitting back on his pillow. He flashed a smile that sent chills down the Doctor’s spine. “Special packaging, and all that.”

“Mine, too,” Wilford said, glancing around with a grin, a bit more maniac than Dark’s. “What about you, Googs?”

Google_B sighed, watching Google_R putting together the bits of his drone, Oliver reading through the specs of his torch, Google_G still lost in thought. “Merry Christmas, Wilford,” he said, pushing the last box towards him. 

Wilford pounced on the box, ripping the paper open. “Thanks,” he started to say, but stopped short, seeing what was inside. “O-ho!” A low whistle, and even Oliver looked up to see what Wilford was pulling out of his present.

It came handle-first, gleaming silver and blackened leather. A long barrel, heavy, and a hairpin trigger; Dark leaned forward in curiosity as the rest of the circle leaned back in fear. 

“We made it,” Google_B explained, eyes glowing in pride. “A hundred and fifty rounds per minute, roughly five rounds every two seconds, and takes normal seven-point-six-two by thirty-nine cartridges, and—”

“Slow down there,” Dark murmured, eyes bright, watching Wilford heft the gun in no particular direction. Bim ducked.

Wilford looked down the sight, finger itching for the trigger. “It’s fantastic,” he boomed, finally, and everyone jumped. “I’ll use her well, Googs.” He put the gun back down into its case, and a breath went around the circle as it slipped out of sight. 

Google_B shook his head, standing, and the others followed his lead. “If you two,” he said, nodding to Wilford and Dark, “are to gift privately, the rest of us will—”

“Stay for a bit,” Bim interrupted, touching Google_B’s arm. “We haven’t even finished our pancakes yet!”

Grumbling, Google_B flopped back onto the couch, spinning his microchip between his fingers, as Dr. Iplier cracked open one of his books by the light of the nearest window, and Bim and the Host started talking about sound equipment. Oliver and Google_G scooted closer to Google_R, finishing his drone.

“Bim,” Dark called him over, getting to his feet. 

Bim patted the Host’s arm lightly before breaking away, walking over to Dark. “Are you my Santa?” Bim teased, his face lit with a purple glow, eyes wide.

Dark rolled his eyes. “In a manner of speaking, I suppose.”

“Aw!” Bim grinned, looking up at him. “Merry Christmas, Dark!”

“Very merry,” Dark scowled, looking over at Wilford, still looking over his gun. “Listen, Bim—”

There was a _woosh_ , and it was suddenly just Bim and Dark, standing in a void. Bim looked around, caught off guard, as Dark leaned over him. 

“ _It’s my turn now_.”

“I—um—”

“Listen, Bim,” Dark hummed, and it sounded as if it was in his ear. “I have seen your heart’s desires, and what you want, I can provide…”

It was as if Dark was prowling around him, voice echoing, and Bim shivered. 

“I can take you wherever you want to go.” Dark was suddenly inches from him, smiling. “I can especially take you to places that you _don’t_ want to go.”

Bim stepped back, and Dark disappeared in a whirl of smoke, laughing. “It’s _exciting_ , isn’t it, Trimmer?”

A whisper, a chill down Bim’s spine: “I can give you anything, and there’s nothing that can stop me.”

Dark appeared again, arm extended as if for a handshake. “I don’t make _deals_ , understand? You don’t even need to let me in.” A chilling smile, and Bim swallowed. Visions were flashing before his eyes: attention, grandeur, power. His wildest dreams.

“All in the spirit of Christmas, and all you have to do is ask. My offer stands for as long as you wish.”

A blink, and the visons cleared, and it was Dark leering at Bim as the others chattered in the background, the noise fading in. 

“Merry Christmas, Bim,” Dark said, winking, walking away. Bim looked around at the others, none of whom seemed to have noticed his and Dark’s ‘conversation,’ and breathed. Dark was trying, was all, and it was a bit disarming. 

A bit. A lot. 

Bim shook his head, walking back over to the Host, who was reading to Dr. Iplier. Bim settled into the couch next to them, and the Doctor slung an arm carelessly, warmly, around Bim’s shoulder. A wave of warmth hit Bim in the chest, and he smiled to himself, listening to the Host read, watching the Googles argue about which part went where and who got to fly the drone first. It was cozy, more than anything, sitting by the Doctor and watching their Christmas tree start to tip under its own weight. The sun was rising, bright, outside, and they were all full of pancakes, and the floor was strewn with wrapping paper, and everything was all right.

“Scrooge, are you ready for your Christmas present?” Wilford bounced up, setting his own present back down. 

Dark folded his arms behind his back, fighting to keep a straight face. “Ready when you are.”

Wilford screwed up his face in concentration, mustache wiggling. He clapped his hands, and there was a puff of smoke, and Bim, across the room, screamed in terror. 

_Soon the bells will start; but the thing that will make them ring, is the carol that you sing…_

“Merry Christmas, Dark!”

_…right within your heart._

Mark sat on the floor, tied in ribbon and wrapping paper in the place of ropes, a bow tied around his mouth. He looked to the others in wide-eyed terror. 

Dark’s face split into a real, unrestrained smile. 

“Merry Christmas, Will.”


End file.
